The 7 After the 12
by ebonbird
Summary: After the 12, 7 remain. In a universe where are the XMen are champions of a besieged minority, operationalizing the Nguzo Saba by any name is a neccesity. Based on UXM 164 through 180, slightly AU.
1. Prologue

Summary: The Twelve days are over, but seven things remain.

Snow falls on Westchester. The afternoon sky, cloudy like cultured pearls, shifts gradually and sneakily into dusk. It has been a quiet day at the Xavier Institute. Current and former students making the point of sharing the space with surface ease. Smoke puffs from some chimneys. The sky has darkened just enough for lit rooms to glow yellow from the windows. Christmas is over; New Year's Eve is come and gone. Visits are ending. In the wake of the holiday fuss and preparation, seven things remain.


	2. Unity

**1. Unity**

Wolverine, also known as Logan, the most nontraditional of nontraditional students, climbs down a ladder on the west side of the house. Broad of shoulder, deep-chested, and thick of limb, he appears both too bulky and too short to descend as quickly as he does. He wears a frayed cowboy hat. His white and blue plaid shirt looks as soft as the breeze gliding against his skin.

There is nothing reassuring or comforting about his appearance, at least to strangers and this rightly so. His skin is coarse; his expressive face nearly sinewy with experience. Bad times and bitter lessons have written and rewritten their way across it, making it as weathered as his felt cowboy hat for all that his features are sharp. If he is in any way beautiful, it is like cliffs crumbling into an arctic sea treacherous with floes.

His denim jacket is stiff with use. It rivals the rust-pocked rivets of his thinning jeans for signs of age and wear. His large, white teeth clamp a stubby cigar. He is a mutant: preternaturally fast, strong, and resilient. His bones are laced with the strongest metal known to man. There is doubt that he can die. He can certainly kill.

As he makes his one-handed way down the ladder, the clouds part. Sunlight, flame approaching ruby, strikes him full in the face. His eyes are a startling, dark and depthless blue. He shields his face with the bundled armful of Christmas lights and continues his descent.

Clouds roll over the sun. The air becomes drier. The falling snowflakes sting.

Ororo Munroe waits at the foot of the ladder. A cardboard box marked OUTDOOR LIGHTS rests at her feet. She stands taller than Wolverine by half a head. Her waist, arms, and legs are slender: the rest of her body, lush.

Her face is incomparable.

She appears younger than Wolverine by centuries, except for her eyes. As vivid as his, they are incongruous for all that her face is serenely expressive. Her eyes are uncanny. Not only are they blue, but the pupils are not exactly round. They look as old as time. Like Wolverine, she wears boots, jeans, and an unbuttoned denim jacket. They are so new that are still creased from where they were folded on the shelf. Her shirt is a flimsy affair, meant for warmer days and picked by the admiring eyes of a teenage girl, mad for color.

Like Wolverine, Ororo is a mutant. Her body compensates for the effects of the weather. On cold days, she is warm. As she is hatless, her hair skirls in the wind, massing around her face and body like a cumulus cloud. It is as light as snow in color and heft. The wind never blows it in her eyes because that is her wish.

Before his foot touches ground, Wolverine deposits the bundle into her outstretched arms.

"That's the last of the outdoor lights on this side," he says around his cigar. His voice is a cracked rumble.

"They were beautiful at night," she says. Her voice, low for a woman, is bell-like. Kneeling she boxes the lights away. "I will miss them. I spent many a night circling the mansion, captured by the view."

Wolverine strikes a match and lights the cigar.

"But the days are lengthening," she says. "And things will return to normalcy soon enough."

"Not soon enough for you," he says and her expression shifts. On anyone else it would be a gentling. It is her equivalent of a full-fledged smile.

"You misjudge me," she says. "I have no quarrel with Robert Drake."

"Ain't what I meant. Kid's got a bad attitude."

She stands, balancing the box on the pronounced curve of her hip. "His... temper, though regrettable, is not nearly as foul as some I've encountered in my tenure as an X-Man."

Wolverine rocks back on his heels, taking the hit with a grin. "Point." he says. Then, "Kid don't like what we represent. An' with Jeannie away so often, you're the woman of the house."

Surprised, she cocks her head.

Wolverine let her think about it.

"I could help him? But I have already offered him my friendship, should he choose to accept my good will."

"It makes a kind of sense," Wolverine insists.

Ororo shrugs. "This place is different from when we first came to live here. And I won't deny that my little friends have had an impact. "

"Meanin' your plants?"

She nods.

"Could be," Wolverine says, but what he means is, 'Think on it some more: no skin off my nose either way.'

She understands him well. "Perhaps for Robert any change is a sort of loss." She looks sad, her mouth rounded with disappointment.

Stretching, he says with equanimity, "Loss is change." He turns from her and goes to the stairs. Tucked in a drift of snow, where stair meets foundation, is a six-pack of Molson's.

He wrings a beer from its plastic ring and extends it to Ororo.

She shakes her head.

"Later then," he says. "Irish told me he was going for a walk. Think I'll meet up with him."

Ororo nods.

Saluting casually, Wolverine wheels away and ambles towards the pine woods.

She adds, softly because his hearing is even better than hers, "To be sure, I shall think on what you've said."

Without turning back, he raises his thumb. The six-pack dangles from his other hand, but does not sway.

After she puts the lights away, she goes back outside to consider trees.


	3. Collective Work and Responsibility

**2. Collective Work and Responsibility**

At the front of the mansion, two former students wheel a trundle-cart to a moving truck.

The smaller of the two men, in height and girth, is Bobby Drake. He could be from any number of suburbs in the Northeastern United States. His build is athletic, his posture indifferent. Seen at certain angles he might be considered remarkably handsome, only, there's something about the way he carries himself that draws no attention. His shaggy hair, light brown this winter, is only a little longer than his barber intended. It is lightly

bleached by the sun and he is as tan in the winter as in the summer because he skis. If looks are destiny, he will go into a family business, marry indifferently, and raise soccer and lacrosse players. They will in no way distinguish themselves from Bobby's family in appearance (or accomplishment).

Appearances are not destiny. He is a mutant. He need not protect himself from the weather because winter is his element and ice his passion. In a long-sleeved sweat-shirt that was once dark-green, jeans stippled with colored chalk-dust, and old running shoes held together with frayed, graying masking tape, he is dressed for physical labor. He has been complaining.

Warren Worthington III, is a vision. Long-waisted, long-limbed and wide-shouldered, there is nothing he cannot out-wear. His profile is Roman in its purity. His thick hair is an astonishing approximation of pre-Raphaelite gold. His eyes are intimidating despite the mildness of their blue. Cold pinks his nose but otherwise, his complexion is flawless. In dress, Warren straddles a fine line between American old money and eurotrash.

This is deliberate. His overlarge Fisherman's sweater (knit by Peruvian artisans to mimic Fair Isle) is the color of clotted-cream. Beneath that he wears a silk, long-sleeved shirt that has been knit, all apiece. It is a red that would invite mockery from Bobby if Bobby could see it. Fawn driving gloves (assembled in Venice) encase his elegant hands. A long muffler, the same color of his gloves but stitched through with red (Burberry's classic pattern), travels twice around his neck and flutters in the snowy breeze. Supple, deep-pile, narrow-whale, corduroy pants, slightly darker than the gloves (not made by Peruvian artisans) are belted high above his waist. This Season's idea of proper boots – insulated, lightweight, watertight, and a wild cordovan color -- complete his ensemble.

Warren is far more glamorous than most of the women in his life, let alone Bobby's. He too, is a mutant. Beneath his extravagant sweater and shirt hide sumptuous, white wings. Unlike Bobby, he has been working.

"Enough, Bobby." Warren says, his breath whitening the air. He places a box of rattling contents atop another cardboard box on the trundle-cart. "The lights on the house were certainly festive and I think the candles in the windowsill were a nice touch."

"It's called a menorah, Warren. And how come I never had one when we were here?"

Warren moves another box. "Maybe you never noticed."

Bobby gesticulates with the long, narrow box clutched in his hand. The same narrow box he'd picked up at the beginning of his 'This holiday sucked' rant.

"I would have noticed. Just like I noticed there wasn't a tree this year."

"Oh, that. Maybe Storm thinks they're immoral."

"Hunh?"

"Well, it does take a long time for a tree to reach maturity."

"And that has exactly what to do with garland, tinsel, and home fire hazards?"

"Maybe it's wrong to cut down a tree just so you can decorate it and put it inside, for at most, a month. You don't think that's remotely wasteful?"

"You're on her side!"

"There are no sides, Bobby. She's very persuasive."

Bobby scoffed. "She's not all that holy. She wears fur, y'know."

"Not Ororo."

Bobby sits on the trundle-cart, nodding sourly. "It's this huge, white thing that she wears like a bathrobe."

Warren considers this. 'I haven't seen it."

"She wears it, like, in the morning when she's walking around the grounds."

Warren cut a glance at Bobby. "Maybe it's a fake."

"Doubtful. She's a 'natural woman'."

Warren shrugs. "Maybe she killed it herself. When she was living in Africa."

"Miss 'Storm Does Not Kill, Little Man'?"

"Or something."

"She's all, 'I'm wearing a glamorous fur coat and nothing else-!'"

Warren's incredulous smile is uncontrolled. It nearly splits the lower half of his face, revealing dimples. "She runs around naked in the mornings wearing nothing but a fur cloak."

"It's unbelievable."

"And you became a morning person, when?"

"What kind of self-respecting vegetarian does that?!"

Warren's mouth hangs open.

"Seriously!" Bobby looks vexed.

Warren cackles.

Bobby continues to look vexed.

Warren struggles to compose himself. When he manages that, he says, "Maybe it was a gift from a friend... or even one of her worshipers and it would have been impolite to refuse it."

Bobby wiggles in place, getting comfortable. "Maybe it's from a Siberian tiger the Russian killed when he was a little boy. Like Hercules."

Warren chuckles in his throat. Bobby smirks.

Warren eyes Bobby, and thinks better of teasing him cross-eyed. "Get up, my friend. I'm not moving these boxes all by myself."

Bobby grunts and scans the lowering sky. "Aren't Jean and Scott supposed to be helping us? Where are they?"

"Probably the same place Alex and Lorna get to when they're running late."

Bobby scowls at that, because he really liked Lorna and she really liked – as in, adored – and still liked, Alex. He leans against a sturdy looking box, inching the cart backwards and forwards with minute adjustments of his feet.

The snow falls thicker.

"Here," Warren says, grabbing hold of a huge carton. "Help me with this one."

Bobby has his tongue out, catching snowflakes. Shaking his head, Warren let's go of the box and walks around the side of the truck. He stares at the sky, shielding his face with his hand as he looks for sight of Jean and Scott. After a moment, he surreptitiously sticks his tongue into the air.

Warren has caught several snowflakes, when he hears Bobby say, in tones so peevish it makes him wince in sympathetic embarrassment: "What do you have against Christmas trees anyway?"

Warren pauses in catching snowflakes, his eyes wide beneath his wrinkled forehead.

The reply, given in a low alto, is unmistakably the woman who runs around naked in the mornings except for a fur bathrobe.

Warren cannot make out the words, but he steels himself and moves out from beside the truck. She twists her upper body to see him. She blinks serenely.

"Good evening, Ororo." Warren says. He can't imagine her running.

She inclines her head. "Warren. I did not know you were here."

"Thought I'd visit. It's been beautiful today, not quite as beautiful as you, but thanks all the same."

A gust of wind casts her hair over her face. She tosses her head, clearing her face. Otherwise, she accepts his compliment impassively. Except for the very first time, she accepts all his compliments impassively.

He unleashes his smile. "Bobby and I have to wrap things up here. Care to join us at Harry's later this evening? Say, nine-ish?"

Behind Ororo, still seated on the trundle-cart, Bobby has been making 'you've got to be kidding me' faces. He draws his finger across his neck and mouths 'no'. Warren's smile widens.

Ororo says, "That would be delightful. I will let Kurt and Piotr know." She turns to Bobby, who schools his expression into something approximating civility.

Warren would loan cash to see hers.

"Hopefully, Robert, we will meet you there?"

Warren wouldn't bet on it.

"I'd love it," Bobby says flatly. "I hear Harry has a great tree."

She sighs. Warren holds his breath

"Harry took the decorations down this weekend past. But the fir still stands: and it is beautiful."

When Ororo takes her leave of them, she takes flight into a sky that is still light. Her connection with the earth is empathic. She knows the grounds of the Institute very well. She is searching for tree. Not any will do.

Warren and Bobby do not know this. Bobby helps Warren load the trundle-cart.

A taxi-cab pulls up the drive of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Bobby and Warren pause from lifting the last of boxes into the trundle-cart. They tie the packages onto the cart with bungee cords, their movements slowing as the taxi draws to a halt.

The rear passenger door of the taxi slams open. A small, brightly dressed figure hops out.

"Would that finally be Jean & Scott?" muses Warren, leaning against the handlebars.

"That would not," says Bobby, leaning against the handlebars nearest him. "Unless something funny happened on the way from Jean's parents' house."

Warren nods.

"Would that be a girl midget, or a boy midget?" Bobby asks, folding his arms and tucking his chin.

Warren folds an arm and alternates stroking the cleft in his chin with thumb and forefinger. His exquisite sight is as fine as an eagle's but he cannot determine if the small figure is female or simply undersized.

"Couldn't say either way, old pal. And as Hank would no doubt point out, 'you're a fine one to cast aspersions upon the stature of the vertically deficient.'"

Bobby jostles the cart with his foot and snorts. "He would not."

Warren maintains his stance. "Hold on," he murmurs. "Considering the colors we're seeing, I'm thinking that's a gidget."

"The littlest X-Man maybe?"

"Perhaps."

Eyes on Bobby and Warren, the sprightly figure trots backwards to the rear of the cab. It bangs the lid with its fist. The trunk pops open. The figure lifts a suitcase, nearly as big as itself, out of the trunk and onto the icy pavement. It slams the trunk lid down, hits the lid with its palm and steps away from the cab. The cab reverses down the driveway and out of sight. The figure arrows on Bobby and Warren, dragging its suitcase with a two-handed grip, glaring at Bobby and Warren all the while.

"Hey," Bobby says. "You lost?"

"Who the heck are you?" yells the stranger. Her voice is many times larger than her actual person.

Warren whistles through his teeth. He has placed the stance and attitude with stories told to him over late-night cups of coffee and drinks with Scott Summers and Jean Grey about the school's latest recruit.

The littlest X-Man has crammed too many colors on too small a canvas. Champion blue ski pants, white snow-flake on orange and pink leg warmers, Pepto-bismol pink jacket (lift tickets dangling from lavender grosgrain tab loops) and a ski hat that is mostly pink-and-orange, but also blue and white. And teal.

Her suitcase tilts. It is nearly her size, but it in no way drags her off-balance.

"Well?" she demands, jerking her suitcase upright. Unnoticed by Kitty, her hat falls from her head, forced by springy, deep brown hair that can't decide if it wants to curl or if it wants to wave.

She is small-boned, ethereal, maybe, with an afterthought nose and mobile eyebrows. The kid's eyes are throwing sparks and her jaw looks like it could crack nuts. Warren chooses to stay mum because he knows he can always count on Bobby.

Bobby says, "Who the heck are you and why should we tell you anything?"

"I'm asking the questions here, bub!" she replies, with a little head shake and a rude index finger pointed back at him.

Warren chokes.

"Can you believe this pipsqueak?" Bobby asks him, placing his hands on the cart handles and pushing forward.

"Pipsqueak?!"

"Now now, Bobby." Warren says, stepping out of the way the cart's way. "Be nice to the freshman."

"Freshman!" Bobby mutters. "There are freshman here now?"

Warren sketches a loose almost-bow before extending his right hand. "I'm Warren Worthington and that's Bobby Drake." Reaching back he catches hold of Bobby's collar and hauls Bobby back.

"Hey! " Bobby says, twisting free.

"You must be Kitty Pryde. Arial, right?"

Her moue of disgust is automatic and appealing in a gnome-like way. "Sprite," she corrects. "I heard about you two. Jean said you were nice."

"Jean lies." Bobby says, flip. "The Professor lies. You can't believe anything anyone around here says. Not even, 'Nice hat'." Smirking, he shakes snow off of hers and hands it to her.

The newbie who is currently calling herself Sprite - Jean promised that the codename changed weekly - loses all patience. Her mouth drops open and her pointing finger comes up, wagging.

Warren waves his hands placatingly. "Don't mind Drake. He landed on his head a lot in the Danger Room when he was younger than you - mentally that is."

"Citizen 'Dur', that's me." Bobby says. He points at Kitty's enormous piece of luggage. "You need help with that bag?"

"That's okay." She indicates the trundle-cart with her thickish chin. "What's on the cart?"

"That's classified, kid. You need to graduate before you can help out with the big time, super-duper top-secret missions."

Kitty pins her lips together while a series of violent thoughts compete for control of her actions. She thinks better of what she wants to do because she grits her teeth, squares her shoulders and says: "It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Worthington."

She holds out her hand.

Warren takes it solemnly and shakes it until he dares to open his mouth. When he does, he says, "Likewise."

She nods her head, takes her bag and starts walking to the house.

Bobby sputters with suppressed laughter.

Her shoulders are rigid. She's marching.

"See you around, Kitty." Bobby calls as she navigates the steps. "Nice to finally meet you, Kitty!" he shouts as she wrestled the front door. The door slams resoundingly. They could hear her yelling in the foyer.

"Kids today." Bobby says.

As Bobby and Warren wheel the cart of boxes towards the garage Warren asks, "Was that absolutely necessary?"

"Yes."

Warren nods his head, in automatic good humor, but Bobby's sour tone registers and Warren blurts: "You really mean that."

"She's too young for this," Bobby says. "And Wolverine's too, too-"

"Violent?"

They navigate an ice slick.

Bobby grouses, "Ye-ah. And Storm's not violent enough. And Kurt and the Russian - Pewter--"

"If Piotr's too hard to pronounce just say Peter," says Warren.

They skirt Wolverine's motorcycle.

"What I was saying, was, those two are, are..."

"Are about our age and doing as well as we ever did."

A cart wheel gets caught up in a tiny frost-heave. Bobby mutters under his breath as they

wrest the wheel free.

"Speak up," Warren says.

"I know they're X-Men, too, but it's not the same."

"They've saved our lives. They've helped us save the universe. We've helped them save lots of people."

The cart is maneuvered over the garage threshold.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore. I want to talk to somebody reasonable."

"Like a hand-puppet you mean?" Warren says, as they stop the cart before the service elevator.

"Shut up. I hate you."

Grinning, Warren punches the button to summon the lift.


	4. Creativity

**3. Creativity**

Scott and Jean began their journey determined to be on time, their intentions good. Bobby had managed the books while Warren and Hank handled procurement. It wouldn't be fair to leave the heavy lifting and final delivery to them as well.

It's a good thing that Jean is faster than any car. They travel snugly in a telekinetic bubble. It is like being inside a snow-globe. Fat, swirling snow-flakes whirl above and spiral below them. The Hudson river glimmers brownly nearly a mile down.

Jean is caught up in the pleasure of mind-controlled flight. Her hands are tight upon Scott's arm. For him, this is like being alone but better. His thoughts are as much his as they ever are for all that her thrilled presence saturates them.

They're going fast through the air, and if Scott wasn't so familiar with Jean when she was enraptured, he might guess that she was in a temper. Hectic color dances in her face. She's bitten her lips blood-dark. Her hair curls damply on her slightly sweaty brow. Her jaw is clenched. The beginnings of a predatory smile has thrown her already high cheekbones into greater prominence. Anger on her was spectacular. This, this was better still.

Scott wonders if all X-women are hot-blooded.

Lorna's anger is pyrotechnical. The very air around her bends with her fury when her ire is aroused. Ororo's displeasure elicits visceral fear. Her hair crackles with static electricity and her eyes fluoresce. Kitty Pryde, still a child really, is good natured-- but volatile. Above all else she is energetic, and when in the grip of some excitement, no one can enjoy peace-of-mind unless they lend their energies to her or stay out of her way. With Jean, a raised voice is accompanied by flying objects. Hers is the stereotypical redhead's temper-- unpredictable and shattering.

And there were other things to consider, though some might think speculation rude. Lorna's passion for Alex, frank in any and all contexts; Ororo's ability to speak as if she had the mandate of heaven and wither an opponent where they stood; and then, there was Kitty and her fascination with Piotr. For all that she was a child, the longing looks she gave Piotr were unnerving.

"You used to look at me like that," Jean says aloud, breaking his concentration.

His look follows his thoughts.

She reaches for him and gives a breathless little laugh. "And you still do."

They are extremely late getting to the mansion.

They touch down on the snowy lawn behind the kitchen, Scott holds Jean close to him. Preparing to hold her upright if need be. As they land, they break through a crust of ice and sink to their ankles in the snow.

The snow is falling thicker by the second as they stamp to the kitchen. There, they are overcome by Hurricane Kitty.

_Maybe all X-women are hot-blooded_, Scott reflects as Kitty flies from hugging him and yelling "Happy New Year", "Your friends are mean" to hugging Jean while yelling "Happy New Year-- great hat!"

She pelts down the hall yelling, "Kurt?? I'm baaaaa-aaack!"

Jean and Scott know she's really looking for Peter. _The way I'd look for you, you fraidy cat,_ Jean crows at him, mind to mind.

Scott grins guiltily. Then he frowns. Scott isn't sure that he's comfortable thinking of Kitty as a woman.

In the coat room, as he's lifting his snow crusted scarf over his head before taking off his coat, he finds himself off-balance and against a wall. Jean's turned off the light, but there's a little coming in from the hallway. He can make out the gleam of Jean's teeth, is caught by the luster of her mouth and then it is pressed against his, hot and damp. She traces his ears with her fingers, works her hands into his hair as she nibbles down the side of his neck. Her hands are busy and he yelps because he is afraid that his glasses will fall from his face.

Giggling, Jean releases him, but then digs her fingers into his lapel. Leaning forward, she presses against his mouth, whispers, "Worry-wart." Her voice is full of glee. "Those things are never coming off. And--" She kisses his cold lips once more, her eyes fluttering shut in showy ecstasy.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks rubbing his hands along her hips.

"As if it wasn't you," she replies. For a moment, she shows him how she sees him. His breath catches in his throat because in her eyes he's got a hero's jaw and a lover's mouth and his forehead is noble, _meant for kiss_es. His face heats because where she wants to be relative to his face and body is where she only recently was. His hair is mussed, and there's a satisfaction that's entirely hers. "You're a fuddy-duddy, Mr. Summers. Bet you my telekinesis could put the bosh on your eye--" (kiss) "--beams--" (kiss) "--of concussive force."

Then she's slipped out of his arms and has danced back into the hall.

He follows. She's not gone far at all. A quick glance of her laughing, dimpled face, followed by two more at both ends of the hallway, and he's on her. Two quick turns of his scarf and he has her captured and dipped. Her hands are tangled up behind her, folded like a rose roughly center of her heart-shaped bottom. She gasps, her eyes wide. He raises his eyebrows enough that she should see them above the frames of his ruby quartz lenses.

"Don't you dare!" she nearly squeals. But, he chooses his kiss carefully, where her ear meets her jaw. She trembles involuntarily, her neck arches into his lips. "..oh, god.." she whispers before his lips cover hers.

"Why are we here again?" he asks, righting her eventually.

"Because we spent Christmas with my family, and New Year's was just for us."

"But why are we here, right now?"

A grandmother clock strikes seven.

They both groan. Jean buries her head in Scott's shoulder. "We're so late."

"Yes, we are."

They dart to the mirror at the end of the hallway, rearrange their hair and make sure their clothes lie correctly.

"You nearly tore the waistband out of my skirt," Jean murmurs ruefully, twisting it round so the pockets are at her hips.

"Interesting choice, considering." Scott says, adjusting his belt.

"I look a mess," she sighs, wrinkling her nose at her reflection.

"You're beautiful. You're always beautiful." he says.

"Oh, Scott," she replies, flushing. Mind to mind she tells him, _No, that's you_.

---

Piotr and Kurt are in the study. A fire burns in the grate.

Kurt perches in Scott's favorite chair, his tail wrapped around his feet. He is reading a book of poems he claimed Wolverine gave him for Christmas.

"I'd like to read to you," Kurt had said upon making his entrance. "Amanda likes poetry and I can't decide which to memorize for her. Our hairy friend tells me that Donne is the thing. But I do not speak Scottish particularly well. Will you let me know if I sound enough like Moira McTaggert to move a young lady's heart to passion?"

Kurt holds one hand to his heart. In a stage whisper, he reads aloud: "'I cannot breathe one other sigh--'" here Kurt sighs "'to move.'"

Piotr's face is hot.

Kurt's face isn't. Kurt continues, "'Nor can intreat one. Other tear…to…fall'"

Piotr has been blushing since Kurt teleported into the study. Piotr had flattened himself over the drawing paper spread before him, snapping the pencil in his hand nearly in two.

Coughing, red in the face, Piotr had waved his hand before his nose. "Did I startle you?" Kurt had asked cheerily, while making himself comfortable. The whiteness of his triangular grin as heartless as his tone.

"Yes." Piotr had said, and pointedly turned back to his poor attempt at a likeness of Ka- Kitty Pryde.

Kitty is due to come home from Chicago any minute. Piotr is frantic to have something suitable and heartfelt to give her-- but not too heartfelt as she is only thirteen and three quarters and this is foreign country.

Kurt says, "Ach. Too much with the 'ths' and the 'shouldsts'." There is a rustling sound of pages being turned. Piotr scowls. Kurt says, "Ah. _Wonderbar_r!" He clears his throat and says, "'I FIX mine eye on thine, and there pity my picture burning in thine eye.'"

The creations Piotr has deemed too foolish (heartfelt) are locked away and placed under his bed.

"You are not listening!" Kurt takes up two pieces of waxed fruit, and juggles them with the book. "Trouble with Katzchen's present?"

"You have no idea," Piotr intones. "Or perhaps you do…" The last is said very softly.

Kurt hoots at the uncharacteristic tone. "It doesn't really matter what you give her. And it's not like you've not given her sketches before."

Piotr draws one of Kitty's eyes. Badly.

"And it is the thought that counts."

Piotr grunts, turning the drawing pad to a new sheet.

"What was wrong with that candle-stick holder you were sculpting for her?"

Shaking his head, his lip curled to indicate that it was a terrible idea, Piotr stabs the paper in front of him gently. "It broke in the oven."

"Ach. Too bad. It's just as well. You cannot play piano under it for her."

Piotr is to polite to do anything other than grunt.

Still juggling, Kurt lifts his chin, stifling his laughter. His stomach trembles. Piotr will not look at him. The pencil whispers against the paper. Then Kurt says, "She likes you, you know," and adds a table clock to the objects he's juggling.

Piotr folds a dog-ear on the paper.

"She asked about you in every post card she sent."

Piotr tucked his hands under his chin, wrinkling his brow. "She wrote me often. Did you write her back?"

"But of course." Kurt's tail joins in the juggling. Another piece of waxed fruit joins the objects going round in the air. "You didn't?"

"...I'm bad with words. I thought that if I had a picture to give her for every day she had been gone..."

"Well. Perhaps poetry would inspire you!" Quite neatly, the fruit and table-clock leave orbit and return to their original places.

"Kurt?" Piotr said, picking up his pencil with resolve.

"Ja?"

"Hush."

Pleased, Kurt does so and re-opens his book of poems. But only for a moment before making that maddening exhalation.

"Kurt!" Piotr nearly shouts.

There is an even more alarming sound. It is that of a person running on her heels. "KURT?" Comes the question clearly, despite distance and doors between the shouter, Kurt and Piotr.

Kurt smiles. Maybe not as heartlessly as earlier.

"_Bozhe moi_. Katya!" Piotr says, color leaching from his face. He pulls his materials to his chest and stands. "Kurt, please?"

Confused, Kurt says, "Read to you? But I th--"

"Get me out of here!"

"Ah!" Kurt tosses the book of poems into the seat. "Certainly." He leaps from the chair and lights on Piotr's shoulders. They vanish in a burst of smoke.


End file.
